The Curse of Dark Magic
by Azkaban'sGuard
Summary: Dumbledore's dead. There's no one to save Snape from the addictive Dark Arts. His Occlumency is failing. Bellatrix is on to him. Narcissa needs him. How can he resist?


**The Curse of Dark Magic**

Shrieking hearts shook Snape's latest torturous dream. He rarely woke without having to relive his imagination's latest method of torture. Every night inventions of new spells haunted his sleep and sometimes they invaded his soul when the sun shone dangerously bright. This affliction was once considered a blessing when Snape was still a student. However, his dabbling with the Dark Arts at such a young age had left a startling consequence. Snape's veins ached for Dark Magic, only satisfied when mind and wand combined to perform the darkest of spells. But when Snape made a spell - oh, sparks of thrill oozed from him.

His latest forbidden whim came to him just a fortnight ago. With a flick of a wand he knew he could stimulate a broken heart within seconds; he could watch their shoulders shrink and their teardrops race towards the ground. But Snape shouldn't feel like this, he was a spy - a spy pretending to be a Death Eater. He was the greatest hope the Order had now that Dumbledore had…departed. He must stop thinking these thoughts; he must not succumb to performing the sin of making such a spell.

Severus pulled on his sodden robe, relishing last nights latest adventure. Speaking to Harry Potter had been a risk, he knew that, but this was the only way to feed the insolent fools at the Order such urgent information. Of course, Harry saw it as a careless slip from his loathed enemy. The boy needed to believe Snape was wholeheartedly, with his blood, his heart and his sharp mind, on the side of the Dark Lord.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you?" echoed a woman's voice from behind the door. It sounded saddened, desperate perhaps. He knew too well that her voice was the only one that could reawaken him to reality. The melancholy surroundings of Spinner's End trickled back into his vision.

Snape ached for her tone and greeted it with a true smile. Oh, how her visits tempted him.

She was married.

"Narcissa, of course not. Please take a seat. Could I interest you in a drink? Ah, I may have to fetch it myself. Wormtail may be in his nocturnal slumber which is befitting of his whiney kind, but even the dimmest of rodents know that it is better to be woken than greet their owner's distaste."

Narcissa turned elegantly and sat down with a wasted grace. Her long blonde strands framed her high cheekbones, accenting her swollen eyes- and the path of her drying tears. Snape's attentive gaze noticed a familiar emptiness in her gaze, but chose to ignore it and went to fetch Narcissa a deep red coloured drink.

"Bellatrix says you're selfish. Oh and 'self-serving' if you'd believe. Severus, she says the Vow's hold on your life was the only reason you killed Dumbledore."

Snape paused and let her sip, or indeed as it turned out, finish her drink, before he answered her.

"Narcissa, it is late morning and you should," he paused to breathe, deciding not to mention how heavy her drinking had become recently, "not let other nights' discussions trouble you further. But, apart from duty, I did it for you and Draco."

Narcissa showed a rare smile, her lips quivering slightly. She forced herself to turn away, to distract herself by looking at the solitary painting on the peeling walls. Inside the frame lay a lone figure in the corner of a room that was shooting down flies with his wand. It intrigued her, but Snape would discard all questions with a practised emptiness in his gaze if she asked him. It would always stay locked in his memories – except Potter had once seen this boy he once was.

Sighing, Narcissa chose to voice her thoughts, not knowing how to articulate and conceal certain intricacies.

"We have always looked up to you."

'Don't make this another temptation', urged a silent voice in his head. Snape could not afford to start a relationship with Narcissa. It was too risky, the implications too large and most importantly: emotions are the key to destruction. Thoughts should not be shielded from one who knew him so well. He must leave before his broken heart dare shriek like in his recurrent dreams.

"Narcissa, I regret our meeting ending so abruptly, but I have urgent and tiresome business to attend to."

The escape was true in essentials, but Snape still felt he was proffering a weak excuse to be rid of her. He kissed her goodbye on each cheek then stepped outside. Glancing at an eerie calm before a large storm, he Apparated. The melancholy trees gave way to the bustling and scheming of Knockturn Alley. In Voldemort's absence it had become a market of cheap tricks, but now he was back once more it was starting to thrive once again. Today, Snape must locate a certain potion's ingredient which was frowned upon in most circles, but in Knockturn Alley, Death Eaters lurked in shadows waiting to sell anything. Lurking amongst those shadows was where Snape now stood, but he was not alone. The decrepit alleyways held the most monstrous of citizens, and now they held beasts. Their snarling jaws were tamed, for it was the wrong time, but for Snape their hushed conversation was beastly enough.

"That's right! Picked it up 'cos he never liked them wizards 'n I spose he's gonna use it to mock 'em like…"

"We can mock them in other ways. Help me to get Dumbledore's wand, and together we can make a tidy profit."

Snape knew who spoke last. It was one who nearly killed him, one who he prepared a potion for, one he nearly sent to Azkaban with that despicable friend of his. Remus was trying to reclaim Dumbledore's wand which Fenrir had snatched. Apparently, Fenrir hadn't thought of a use for the Sorcerer's Wand, and Snape failed to see what the Order could do with it. Personally, he felt they paid far too much attention to their emotions. He left the alleyway, for the darkness was bringing his craving back once more. Often, he had cursed himself for such a dependency on Dark Magic. But better wizards had been lost before him to such an Art.

He dismissed Remus' business and let it drift from his mind allowing old tendencies to infiltrate his mind. He never used to crave to assemble Dark Magic spells when he was a teacher in Hogwarts. But that was back when The Dark Lord resembled a scaly foetus. His forehead wrinkled a little, he was being untruthful to himself. There was always the familiar urge in his finger tips, the dull ache flowing through his blood, but Dumbledore did the best he could to keep those desires away. He couldn't help realising that recently the temptation had maximised, he had to excuse himself from many meetings as the will to concentrate on topic at hand drained away rapidly. His life was being overpowered by this forceful need and so he sought to blame it on other things. He presumed it was the combination of last years post as Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher and Voldemort's rebirth that made the desire's potency strengthen. But even though it was The Dark Lord's return that sparked it, he was displeased with Snape's dependence on his fixation. However, that was a memory for another day, another lifetime perhaps.

Snape brushed those thoughts from his mind once again and quickly glided to a shop he was most comfortable with. There was nothing more comfortable to Snape's warped mind than seeing Borgin's face behind the counter.

"Good morning, Sir. It has been too long since your humble presence has graced this –"

"Save your flattering mumblings."

The former potions master went through tireless procedures and name droppings with Mr Borgin to gain the whereabouts of his much desired potion ingredient.

"It just so happens, Severus that I received some just this morning."

He leaned over the counter; he paused deliberately, relishing the dramatic affect.

"Oh, the adventures Mr Crew went through searching for the beast. He even went to France, but they've got stronger protection over their beasts nowadays. See, Crew, he did get it eventually, but he's had a dreadful time ever since."

Borgin suddenly seemed intent at the wooded grain on his desk.

"No one knows what's wrong."

Snape allowed a look of intrigue to escape.

"He won't listen to any advice, nor bear any visits to St Mungo's. Chuckles, he does, and tells everyone it's just life catching up with him, but we all know that makes no sense."

Taking a minute to digest Mr Borgin's incessant babble, Snape swallowed and prompted very slowly, "I trust that you know the implications of drinking unicorn's blood?"

"Oh, you're not saying that he drank it?"

"Indeed."

Snape's lip thinned at the thought of the cursed life which was had from the moment the silvery liquid brushed your mouth. He pocketed the crystal vial, gave his laboriously civil farewell and returned to his house. The scenery changed back to his house and as he faced the lonely portrait on his wall he couldn't help wondering what a cursed life would feel like. It would make such a weapon, such a spell.

The sofa groaned as Snape sat down, providing him comfort while he gulped down his mulled mead before he brew a potion for his Lord. He allowed himself this last procrastination, promising there would be no more.

Hinges suddenly shook as the door rattled, cacophony filling the house.

"Wormtail?" Snape shouted.

But there was no reply.

He hadn't realised or cared before that there hadn't been a response for weeks. Private musings of terrible things absorbed Snape too thoroughly for Snape to check. He knew who was pounding thunderously at the door. He got up, his knees giving way slightly, and opened the door slowly. He had realised too late.

It wasn't Narcissa; it was much worse.

"Bellatrix, how _lovely_ to see you."

His tone mirrored the darkest spell.

"You're in trouble, Severus."

"Care to enlighten me?."

"I am here because the Dark Lord sends a message."

"Usually owls have a pouch in which I can slip in a Knut or two, but Bellatrix my dear delivery girl—"

"Snape," she interrupted, venomously calm, "we can goad each other until the end of time or perhaps some time more frequent such as when my sister will next visit you. What she wants of you, my sharp mind cannot dare to fathom."

Snape made a simpering smile and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"I'm sorry, do carry on. Was this supposed to save time?" he sneered.

She landed the fatal blow. "Wormtail has gone missing. Right under your nose! This snivelly rat—"

"SHUT UP!"

The word, 'snivelly', had struck a chord in the usually cool and calculated former Professor. He regained his composure and his exhale was complimented with his answer.

"This is regrettable. But he's not important to us."

Bellatrix's restraint fizzled and died.

"You disobeyed the Dark Lord's wishes! It is not your say to deem the importance of his tasks! What he says, we do, Snape! You're too busy mulling over your problem! I don't care who you killed, you're worthless and dangerous to the Dark Lord."

Snape looked vainly in his empty class, looking for a comeback, and laughed. She always had a fiery temper; the danger had always enthralled lesser men.

"You are a lesser man, Severus Snape."

Snape inadvertently jerked. His Occlumency was failing. This was wrong, this was bad. She could find out so much more. But then again she already voiced his treachery and no one believed her. But if the Dark Lord looked into his mind, it would be the last time Snape lied to him.

"Your mind is weakened by your obsession, and they will all know soon. He'll know."

Bellatrix sounded maddened, her hair hissing, her gaze deadly.

Snape sighed, for that was the only thing he could do when dealt his failings by such a dangerous enemy. He asked her to leave, aided by his wand. Once more, he tried to assume his character.

"Your silly murmurings are treachery in itself. Leave me to my work and find the rat yourself. Be gone, little owl."

Snape sat back down on his sofa, head in hands. He summoned more drinks and abandoned his weakening persistence to stay awake and finally let his exhaustion take hold.

He dreamt of many things, of memories and possibilities and futures that would never be. With one memory lurking fiercely in his mind, his sleeping body shuddered. The Dark Lord had warned him that day.

In the darkened room he knew as his own, he looked up to the great robed Lord.

"These Dark deeds are to please you, my Lord," Snape said, his mind not blank, but full of frightful images. It was the only way to conceal the secrets without the Dark Lord being suspicious, but it was weakening him day by day. Aching, stabbing pain coursed through him.

"These spells," Voldemort said lazily, "are thrilling, certainly, but they are not necessary. What is necessary, Severus?" The Dark Lord laced every syllable with the subtlest threat.

"Carrying out your duties with dedication and concentration." Severus answered obediently; he knew what the next blow would be. "This cannot be achieved if I dwell on Dark Magic"

The Dark Lord looked out of Snape's window and sighed.

"I do not expect my most adept servant to be held so strongly under Dark Magic's touch. It is weakness you show, which is, as you very well know, what I can't abide. Think about this. Narcissa will give you your task tomorrow night. You will not fail, the consequences would be regrettable."

Without further farewell the Dark Lord departed, his cloak swirling round his skeletal body.

His dream moved on to Dumbledore and how he would have dealt with his addiction. He would not punish, he'd understand that threatening just couldn't help. If only he were alive to help him. But Snape had killed his rescuer. Everything changed. Colours merging, wailing as he still saw his frail body crash infront of his ungrateful audience. He still saw the expression in his eyes, night after night. He couldn't stand the pleading – its constant torment resounding round his head; he didn't want to fulfil that duty. There was no one to save the Half Blood Prince; he was too obsessed to concentrate on what would be his final task. He would have to answer to the Dark Lord, knowing that he would never need to shut away his mind again. The poison was eating away its veil.

His eyes flickered, distressed.

"Severus?"

The tension in his face relaxed.

"It's me, only me."

His eyes had barely opened, but he knew it was Narcissa. Her lips were tantalisingly close to his. He went to withdraw when his dream came flooding back.

"What are you thinking?" she whispered.

He opened his mouth to answer; to try and explain how there was no use trying anymore. He wouldn't bother to form words of the mental wounds he felt. He could live no more while so fixated with Dark magic. It would not just hurt him, but others. She was the only voice he listened to anymore; her temptation was angelic compared to the burn of the Dark Arts. He strived to resist both temptations. Instead, he lent forwards to lock their lips in a tender embrace.


End file.
